


Flip the Safety

by Atsvie



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Gift Fic, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atsvie/pseuds/Atsvie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both get a little carried away when they fight, but this time Wade grins over his gun and the worst part is that Peter knows he doesn’t plan on shooting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flip the Safety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arrafrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrafrost/gifts).



When Wade and Peter fight, it’s like a whirlwind of emotion and energy that’s trapped and ready to burst. Normal banter is relatively tame in comparison to actual fights where dishes are occasionally thrown, doors rattle on their hinges when they’re slammed shut, and at least one of their throats have gone raw from screaming.

Sometimes it’s over stupid things—something Wade did or more often _didn’t_ do—but the worst are when Wade is the one seething quietly because Peter pushed a little too far and exploded because Wade can’t just keep forcing him out when he’s already dug his heels in this deep.

But more often than not, it ends in sex, if that’s what it can still be called with mutual slamming against walls and furniture. And while they’re not actually trying to kill each other, there’s still that wild spark in their eyes, something crazed about the way they kiss like they’re trying to bite at each other’s mouths more than anything.

Wade has him against the mattress, tearing at his clothes while Peter cards his fingers through the blonde locks, both of them moving like there’s nothing but adrenaline coursing through their veins. He’s pretty sure that something is torn in the process, but Peter doesn’t have time to register it because Wade has them both stripped of the rest of their clothing and has begun to mouth at his throat.

Peter still feels mad, but it was one of those fights like a flash fire that blew up quickly in a combustion of fury and words, but he can’t remember what those words are right now. Not with Wade’s teeth sharp at his collar, sucking dark hues down his neck like he’s mapping out his claim. So he’s mad, something acidic and burning coiling in his stomach that he just wants to manifest physically.

The brunette scrapes his nails down the scars of his back, feeling a certain sense of pleasure from the hiss that follows, even if it does earn him a rough bite that must have drawn blood by the way Wade’s tongue follows the double crescent.

“Fucker,” he hears mumbled against his skin.

And Peter knows Wade is going to fuck him and he _wants_ that. If anything, he rolls his hips and tries to draw him to the edge, to finally give in and just _hurry up_ because he had no patience right now. But instead he’s met with Wade pushing his hips back down and a wicked grin that actually elicits a shudder from the younger.

“What,” Peter says, less of a question and more of a demand.

Wade looks like he’s not telling him something, a devious expression on his face that’s both frightening and more attractive than it should be. He moves so that he’s straddling Peter’s hips, shifting his weight heavy on his waist which makes Peter snort like it would actually make a difference when it comes to keeping him down. But he’s reaching for something that must have been in their clothes.

“Wade,” Peter starts, eyes widening because _no._ Wade tosses a bottle of half empty lube at him and doesn’t even try to hide the gun in his other hand.

The worst part is that Peter _knows_ that Wade isn’t planning on shooting him.

“What was that?” Wade asks, voice husky and low and something obscene, back to looming over Peter like he’s some kind of prey that he’s caught. Peter inhales a long moment, taking in the musk and hint of gunpowder as he tries to remind himself that Wade isn’t going to shoot him and he’s not actually trapped. One flip and Peter can be gone.

He still doesn’t find himself trying to push him off, even as Wade is trailing the barrel of the pistol—and fuck that’s his Desert Eagle and Peter knows that’s his favorite—along his lips. The metal is cool and too much like a caress of hard lips against his, like he not flicking his tongue out to meet the potential for death.

“Suck,” Wade says, pressing the gun further against his lips until Peter opens his mouth and tastes the metal. He watches Wade, eyes low and his heart is thudding as he tries not to think about what he’s doing. How he’s sucking down the barrel of the gun like it’s Wade’s cock, wrapping his lips around it and letting his tongue slowly trace the edges in the design.

He hears Wade curse under his breath and he knows he’s enjoying this. Something about all the anger from the fight before is fueling this, like he’s able to take Wade apart by playing into whatever this is—because he is, really. Wade looks like he’s getting wrecked from watching Peter do obscene things to his gun with his tongue.

Peter sucks the gun into his mouth a little more, although that still isn’t much considering it’s already making his jaw sore and the uneven edges bite against his mouth. It’s harder to work with, but he _tries_ just to get that reaction from Wade like he’s forgotten all of his shame and self preservation at the door. Fighting does that occasionally.

He feels Wade pushing his legs apart but keeps his focus on the gun in his mouth, which isn’t hard to do considering he’s still contemplating whether the safety is actually on. Wade wouldn’t actually be stupid enough to leave it off, he thinks to himself, feeling a spike of fear regardless.

His breath hitches at the slick fingers—he’s not sure when Wade actually lubed up his fingers but he finds that he’s more concerned about how much at this point—prodding between his legs. He pushes them in, starting with the first two and it fucking burns because Wade isn’t gentle with prepping him and he’s being more precarious than usual. 

But Peter does relax, letting Wade fuck his fingers deeper into him, stretching him with the digits scissoring his hole. For a moment, Peter clenches his teeth and there’s a clang against the metal and a muffled groan that follows.

If Peter had thought Wade was being rough before, he suddenly misses the fingers because Wade is pulling the wet barrel of the gun out of his mouth and letting it trail down his chest, finding the dip of his navel and scraping along the skin of his hip bones. Peter glares at him for all the fierceness that he can muster, which is impressive considering he knows he’s about to get fucked with Wade’s favorite pistol.

“You’ll enjoy this,” Wade says pleasantly, pushing his legs up. At least he’s generous enough to lather more lube onto the gun and Peter tries not to think of how hard that will be to clean later. That’s Wade’s problem, though.

“I’m still mad at you,” Peter says like that makes some kind of difference or as if that will justify his compliance in all this.

“I know.”

Wade grins at him something filthy and Peter let’s out a choked noise at the feeling of sharp metal pressing into him. It feels like it won’t fit, if not just from the awkward edges and corners of metal, much less the thickness. It’s not like taking Wade who is large but at least warm and still flesh.

Peter throws his head back, teeth biting into his lip as his mind panics with all the things wrong about this. The foreign slide of metal against his insides, how he still doesn’t know if the damn safety is on—which he tries to calm his breathing at—and how he hates that there’s a certain pleasure with the burn of being stretched in a different way.

It hurts and Wade looks like he’s more fascinated with watching the way that Peter’s expressions flit between pain and pleasure. He draws the gun back out, slow and lethargic, which only makes Peter hiss and grip at the sheets. It seems like forever before the slow drag becomes a pace of thrusting, pushing the barrel back in—and every time, Peter lets out a broken moan that’s only a bit more pleasure than pain.

“The safety is on, right?” Peter manages, though his voice doesn’t sound like him. It’s too breathy, too broken like he’s forgotten how to speak entirely.

Wade just thrusts the gun back in a little harder.

_“Wade,”_ Peter writhes from the action, hips bucking and twisting, “Tell me the safety is on.”

“Maybe,” the merc answers vaguely, but he’s only fucking the gun into him faster and the sensation is something that is overwhelming and frightening—and maybe just a bit exhilarating but he would die before he admitted that to Wade. It’s something that has Peter unable to articulate his words, arching his back and moans muffled when Wade leans forward and slams their lips together.

Peter screams when he comes, shaking around the gun and biting down on Wade’s lips and tongue. It’s not until the air starts to return to his lungs that he realizes that he’s gasping and that Wade has one hand wrapped around Peter’s cock, still jerking him off slowly with the other on his own. Wade follows him a moment later, spilling onto his stomach and hips, face buried in his neck.

The gun slides out with an obscene pop and Peter feels like he wants to die.

But he just lets himself fall back against the mattress, exhausted and sore although sated. They both seemed to have fucked the anger away so he avoids having to swallow his pride when he tugs Wade down and wraps his body around him.

“The safety was on,” Wade tells him a few minutes later, finger lazily tracing patterns over his hips.

“I know,” Peter says, voice thick with sleep, “Good luck cleaning that.”


End file.
